Krymzyn (The Journals of Krymzyn Book 1)

by BC Powell

  At the foot of the hill, a few feet past the outer edge of the branches, stand the other six Disciples. Beside them, a giant steel pole with an arm hooking towards the Tree reflects light from overhead. A brushed-steel bell, at least ten feet tall, hangs from the arm of the pole. When I look around the empty hills surrounding the meadow, my heart sinks from not seeing Sash. Eval turns away from the Tree, sees us, and walks up the hill to where we stand.

  “Chase from the planet called Earth,” Eval says when she reaches us, “your arrival presents yet another anomaly.”

  She looks a little older, still elegantly beautiful, and maybe an inch taller after six years, although it’s hard to tell. I’ve peaked at about six foot one, but still have to tilt my head back to look into her eyes.

  “You know, Eval,” I say, “it sure seems like I don’t have much time for telling when I’m here even though I’m supposed to be a Teller.”

  “That’s occurred to me as well, as we’ve discussed before. There must be a purpose to your visits, however, even if we don’t fully understand what that purpose is yet. I can only surmise that, since you’re here now, you’re meant to observe the Ritual.”

  “It will be my honor,” I say, quickly remembering the vernacular of Krymzyn.

  From behind Eval, one of the giant limbs suddenly whips through the air and slams into the bell. A blaring ring resounds through the countryside.

  “The second bell,” Tork says to me, “calling the people of Krymzyn to Sanctuary. The first ring, just prior to your arrival, alerted us that a child had reached the height of purpose. The third ring will begin the Ritual.”

  People soon appear on the hilltops surrounding the meadow. Some have neon green hair mixed with black—I remember that those are Watchers. Others have scarlet in their hair like Sash, so I know they’re Hunters. The people with cobalt blue strands are Travelers, Sash had explained to me. I also see a few with striking magenta and several with bright cyan, but I don’t know what those colors signify.

  Seven gold-haired Keepers walk to the top of the hill we stand on with seven black-haired children beside them. The age range of the children looks to be from two to eighteen. Everyone is wearing the exact same black pants and sleeveless shirts, barefoot as they climb the hills. The adults all have rope belts buckled around their waists with steel flasks hanging by their hips, and all carry long double-tipped spears in their hands.

  One Keeper and one boy, the child who appears to be the oldest, continue down the hill to where the other Disciples stand. As I study his face, I realize that it’s one of the two kids from the day I sat on the Tall Hill with Sash. He’s maybe five foot nine now, muscular and stocky with a ruggedly handsome face under his black curls. I assume he’s the one to have reached the height of purpose since he’s the only child to walk into the meadow.

  Something triggers inside, so I spin to look behind me. Marching up the hill in a deliberate stride, almost directly towards me, is Sash. I take a sharp breath, my chest tightens, my stomach twists, and my heart pounds so loudly that it’s booming inside my head.

  She freezes when she sees me, stares into my eyes for a second, then looks down at the ground. She’s grown two inches, maybe three, still lean and toned. Slowly, Sash raises her eyes to mine, revealing only minute changes in her face. Her cheekbones are a bit more pronounced, her lips are fuller—subtle hints that six years have passed.

  Amber flares from her eyes and seems to surround me. I don’t know if I’m imagining that the corners of her mouth curl up into an almost imperceptible smile. But I watch as it spreads from her dark red lips, up through her smooth cheeks, and into her eyes. Never has someone fallen so far, so fast, from just the sight of a smile. A fall that, for me, has no end.

  I start to walk down the hill but suddenly break into a run. I can’t control it, can’t stop myself, and I throw my arms around Sash. She drops her spear to the ground and slips her hands around my waist. Her legs strain as her feet push firmly against the ground to press her body harder against mine. I lean my head back and immerse myself in her eyes, seeing the trace of a smile still on her face.

  “How did you know I’d return?” I ask.

  She lifts a hand to my face, running a fingertip along the curve of my cheekbone, down my jawline, and around my chin. “In my Vision of the Future, your face looked as it does now, not as it did when you were last here.”

  “I must have drawn a thousand pictures of you,” I say, “and not one can begin to compare with how incredible you look to me right now. I’d stare at those pictures and wish with everything inside me that I could see you and talk with you and be with you.”

  “Sometimes, before I’d sleep, I’d see your face,” she replies, seeming to understand my meaning with the word “wish.” “I longed to see you again, but you never arrived.”

  “That’s called ‘missing someone’ in my world,” I say, pulling her close to me.

  We stand silently, our bodies pressed together, fitting perfectly in each other’s arms, until she whispers in my ear.

  “It feels so good to be with you now, but we must attend the Ritual.”

  When we release our embrace, she picks her spear up from the ground. We turn and walk to the top of the hill side by side, Eval and Tork both staring at us with blank faces. PDA doesn’t happen in Krymzyn. In fact, the “A” of PDA doesn’t even seem to exist here, so I’m sure they’re more confused than anything.

  “I was just greeting Sash in the manner of my plane,” I say to Eval when we reach her. “It’s called a hug. Do you want one too?”

  I extend my arms out, genuinely wanting to share a physical greeting from my world with her, but she cocks her head to the side and squints at me.

  “Since you and Sash are familiar with one another,” Eval says, ignoring my gesture, “perhaps she’ll be able to explain the events of the Ritual to you as they occur.”

  “I’d really like that,” I say.

  “It will be my honor,” Sash adds, the soft sound of her voice floating into me and starting the flutters in my stomach all over again.

  “How do you measure the height of purpose?” I ask Eval.

  “You show a keen interest in the ways of Krymzyn,” Eval remarks, a note of approval in her tone.

  “I’m fascinated by everything here.”

  “So it seems,” Eval says. “In answer to your question, the height of purpose varies from child to child. Some reach it when they’re still short, others not until they’re almost your height.”

  I assume the age range she refers to is roughly sixteen to twenty-one, based on the boy I saw and Eval’s vague description. Vague in the way so many explanations are in Krymzyn, I remember.

  “The tallest child knows they’re chosen for the Ritual when they hear the bell?” I ask.

  “No,” Eval answers. “The chosen child knows by their palms glowing gold. It’s not necessarily the tallest child currently in Krymzyn. Sash was surprisingly short when summoned for her Ritual. In fact”—Eval glances at Sash—“she was much younger than any child ever chosen.”

  I turn to look at Sash, but she stares straight down the hill at the Tree, not responding to what appears to be a compliment.

  “So the kid—child—just goes up to the Tree, spikes it, and drinks the sap?” I ask Eval, remembering to instantly correct myself when a word doesn’t translate.

  “There’s no need for a spike. The sap of this Tree will be freely given, but only after it’s been earned. The Tree won’t simply let one pass without challenge.”

  “You’re telling me that boy has to fight his way to the Tree?”

  “He must prove to the Tree that he has a purpose inside him,” Eval replies. “If he has none, then he’ll meet death at the branches of the Tree.”

  “What!” I exclaim loudly enough that half of the people standing on the hills turn to look at me.

  “While it’s rare, it does happen. Not all who are created have a purpose.”

  “That s
eems pretty cruel,” I say.

  “So all on your plane are born with a purpose of value to your world?” Eval asks.

  I don’t say anything, understanding her point, but it still seems cold and barbaric to me.

  “I should mention,” Eval responds to my silence, “that only once in the history of Krymzyn has a child reached the trunk entirely unscathed, uninjured, and untouched by the Tree. In fact, that child was allowed to pass without challenge.”

  Eval’s eyes wander to Sash again and mine follow. Sash is focused on the meadow and seems to be ignoring the conversation.

  “I believe,” I say to Sash, “Eval the Disciple has just praised you.”

  Sash turns her head to Eval, bows it slightly, then looks back at the Tree. I guess I can add humility to the list of things to admire about her.

  “When scarlet was revealed in her hair,” Eval says, “I believe the Tree of Vision made it clear that Sash should remain as close as possible to the sustaining trees. No Murkovin has ever taken sap from a tree in the Delta since Sash became a Hunter, and we’ve never lacked the sap we need for our sustenance.”

  “It’s my honor to serve those in the grace of Krymzyn and the trees that provide for us,” Sash says without taking her eyes off the meadow, an undeniable sincerity and truth in her voice.

  “Your service has our respect,” Eval replies. “Now I must leave you, as I need to join the other Disciples. Please, Chase, feel free to quietly ask Sash any more questions you have during the Ritual.”

  “Thank you. I’m truly honored to be here for this event.”

  She and Tork bow to us before walking down the hill to the other Disciples. Honored, I think, as long as I don’t have to watch the kid get the crap beat out of him by the Tree, and I’m kind of wondering how I’m going to react if he’s in trouble.

  Chapter 15

  “Isn’t that the boy we saw on the Tall Hill?” I ask, turning to Sash.

  The boy stands silently with his back to the Tree, a Keeper at his side and the row of Disciples in front of him.

  “Yes. His name is Cavu,” Sash replies. “I believe the Tree will test his strength as well as his cunning.”

  My heart continues to race at the feel of her beside me. I slip my hand into hers and grasp it tightly. “Is this all right?”

  She squeezes my hand, looking into my eyes. “If you’re in need of nurturing, I’ll provide it for you.”

  “I am,” I say. “More than you know.”

  A hint of a smile appears on her face again. I want to hug her so badly that my limbs are burning, but I decide that this really isn’t the time or place, especially with some kind of religious or spiritual ceremony about to begin.

  I survey the hilltops surrounding the meadow. There can’t be many more than a hundred people here, and Tork said that all of Krymzyn was coming to the Ritual.

  “Is this everyone in Krymzyn?” I ask.

  “Everyone except for a few Watchers who remain on the walls during the Ritual,” Sash says. “Those who dwell on the Mount are still arriving.”

  “What’s the population of Krymzyn?”

  “One hundred and twelve is the number of balance. If one dies, then a new child is needed to return us to the number of balance. That number excludes the Guardians of the Infinite Expanse and the Murkovin, but their number is neither greater nor less than what’s needed to maintain balance.”

  “That’s it?” I exclaim. “On the whole planet—I mean, plane?”

  “That’s the number of balance.”

  “Are there a specific number of people for each purpose?”

  “There are always seven each of the Disciples, Keepers, Weavers, and Travelers. Seven Apprentices with the color of purpose in their hair. We have twenty-eight Watchers in the Delta, two shifts of fourteen, and fourteen on the Mount, two shifts of seven. Seven Hunters dwell in the Delta and seven on the Mount, as well as seven Constructs in the Delta and seven on the Mount. When the number of children is reduced from seven to six, as will be the case after the Ritual, a child will be born to return the number to seven.”

  “Did someone die recently?” I ask, deciding that the only way the math could work out is if they had lost someone.

  “A Watcher fell to the Murkovin,” Sash replies flatly.

  It’s a lot of information for me to absorb, and I’m still not sure which color is which purpose. I notice that every number is seven or divisible by seven.

  “Is there always one Apprentice for each purpose?”

  “No,” she says. “If it was that way, a child would know what their purpose would be before their Ritual. We may have several Apprentices for one purpose at any given time, and none for others.”

  I quickly count the people with blue hair, coming up with eight. “One of the Travelers must be an Apprentice.”

  “You’re correct,” Sash replies before pointing to a tall male Traveler.

  The man looks like he’s in his late forties and has medium-length black hair laced with cobalt blue. A young woman stands beside him.

  “Tela,” Sash continues, “who we saw on the Tall Hill, is an apprentice Traveler. A man called Larn is her Mentor.”

  I recognize Tela, although she’s now a curved beauty of about nineteen. She looks like she should be a bikini model, not someone known for her speed. She’s around five foot eight, her straight black hair highlighted with the same blue as the man’s. Probably feeling my gaze, she turns her head to me. Her round face is solemn as she nods, but I see obvious recognition in her eyes. I smile at her, receiving the usual head tilt at my facial expression that doesn’t exist here—except in Sash now. Just as she did many years before, Tela reminds me of my sister.

  “She doesn’t look like she really has the right body type for speed,” I say.

  “Traveling speed comes more from the mind than from the body,” Sash replies.

  I’m familiar with the mental side of long-distance running, but the way Sash said “traveling speed” implies something more to me than just running fast.

  As I scan the people lining the hills again, I stop on a pair of amber eyes fixed on Sash. I remember the man—the green-haired Watcher Sash argued with after she saved me from the sustaining tree. The thick muscles in his neck and arms strain like a sprinter coiled in the starting blocks before a race.

  The expression on his face, although serious like everyone else’s here, is different than any I’ve seen in Krymzyn. It’s not the kind of stoic, emotionless face that I’m used to seeing. Leering at Sash might actually be how I’d describe his stare, now that I really think about it.

  His eyes drop to our clasped hands then jump to my face. When his eyes narrow and his brows sink, they’re not signs of curiosity like I’ve seen in the others looking my way. In his glare, I see challenge.

  I refuse to back down, and I give him my best “what the fuck are you looking at” expression, clenching my jaw so that I know my face looks as tough as I can make it. Contempt for me is what I see.

  A giant limb suddenly soars through my vision. I follow its path to watch the branch slam into the side of the bell. After a clamorous ring subsides, Cavu, facing the Disciples, holds his hands out in front of him. Bright, golden light glitters above his palms. He raises his hands over his head for all of us standing on the hills to see.

  Cavu turns towards the Tree. All the branches jump into violent motion, butchering the air above the meadow. A few boughs snake high above the ground like they’re waiting for him to make a move. The boy tentatively walks around the outer perimeter of the meadow, studying the trunk. With a sudden burst, he sprints straight towards the Tree.

  “Holy shit,” I whisper when a branch slams into his midsection, hurling him twenty feet backwards.

  He falls to the ground on the edge of the field, a few feet outside the range of the branches. As he gulps for breath, Sash tightly squeezes my hand, sensing my dismay.

  “He must use his mind as well as his strength,” Sash says, keeping
her eyes on the boy with no change at all in her facial expression. “When he does, he’ll prevail.”

  I remember that Sash knows these things before they happen, so I’m somewhat relieved by her statement.

  The boy tightens his hands into fists as he stands. After a moment of deliberation, he dashes into the meadow. He stutter-steps and spins when the first limb sails towards him. As though it anticipated his move, a nearby branch is cocked at the ready. It slashes into the boy’s face and upper chest and again knocks him backwards to the ground. He rolls across the turf, away from the Tree, stopping on his stomach.

  Shaking his head with frustration, Cavu stares at the grass. Blood streams from his nostrils, drips over his lips, and trickles down his chin.

  “He’s learning,” Sash says.

  “Learning how to get his ass kicked,” I mumble under my breath.

  Her face scolds me when she turns to look into my eyes. “Cavu must know what’s inside him. He must realize what he’s capable of. Only challenge will reveal that.”

  I hold her gaze for a moment, nod my understanding, and turn back to the boy. I think about yelling a few words of encouragement, but, given the absolute silence of everyone else here, I decide I better bite my tongue.

  The boy stands, clenches his fists again, and aims his eyes straight ahead. Trotting instead of sprinting this time, he starts towards the trunk.

  When a limb swoops at him, he dives to the ground and slides narrowly underneath it. A second branch slams straight down from above. Just before it hits, he rolls out of the way and springs to his feet. With muscles bulging through the leathery black pants, his legs churn in a determined sprint.

  Another limb swings towards his midsection. With a lowered shoulder, he crushes into the branch, absorbs the impact with his legs, and spins off the blow like a fullback rolling off a tackle. A branch sails in from behind, but he ducks underneath it. Yellow leaves graze over his body, the limb pauses in midair, then it whipsaws at him again. He dips under the backlash and explodes into a final charge at the Tree.